


Bring Trouble to Your Doorstep

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Series: Father Figures [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Clint Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 05:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3476372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Father Figures' - Clint needs a safe place to lay low and avoid the dragons that keep appearing in his swimming vision, and isn't a dad supposed to be happy to see his kid? Maybe running to Brian's house after escaping a HYDRA base wasn't the brightest idea, but it sounded good at the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bring Trouble to Your Doorstep

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to dysprositos for beta help. I did some editing post-beta, so all mistakes are my own. Thanks, also, to everyone who was so happy with my first story in this series, "Father Figures." To the original prompter over at avengerkink, again I thank you. This is a fun storyline to run with.

The cement step is swaying under his feet, like he’s standing on a boat on a calm day, and he’s gripping the wrought iron handrail tightly. The wood door in front of him seems to be slipping from its hinges, and the grain of the wood seems to be swirling in obscene patterns. He blinks hard to get it to stop.

Brian McGraw opens the door, and his jaw drops a little when he lays eyes on Clint.

“Can I crash here?’ Clint asks before Brian can say anything. He came running here because isn’t your father supposed to look out for you when you’re hurt? That’s what he’s heard, and yes, he'd memorized Brian’s address.  He'd memorized it the minute it was given to him for some reason he didn’t want to examine too closely then, and he’s here now, testing it.

He has a fleeting thought that most sons don’t show up drugged to the gills on god-knows-what from being a HYDRA prisoner for five days, but the thought disappears on the wings of a tiny rainbow-colored dragon flying around Clint’s head. “I just need –“ he breaks into a  phlegmy cough, and it steals his breath completely as he doubles over, trying to catch it back.

“Clint,” Brian breathes, and he calls over his shoulder, “Mark! Come here!”

Clint manages to pull himself upright again and he ignores the fireworks of color exploding around the edge of his vision. He looks at Brian, who is standing there staring wide-eyed, wearing a forest green terrycloth bathrobe that looks way too much like it has gills, and navy slippers that might be sucking black holes. “No doctors, Brian. No hospital. Please, it’s not safe,” he says hoarsely. Suddenly the handrail he’s gripping is lava hot, and he lets go with a yell.

“Shit,” Brian exclaims, and he reaches forward, grabbing Clint’s arm and keeping him from dropping to the concrete.

***

“He’s not here, Coulson,” Cap says over the comm line, and Phil can hear the frustration in his voice. Phil’s heart plummets at the words, because this was the last base they knew about to check for Clint, and if he wasn’t here, well. Phil is at a frightening loss.

“Did Stark scan for hidden doors and rooms in the basement?” Phil asks, just because he wants to hear it – he knows it’s been done.

“Yes,” Cap replies. “Listen, Coulson, we think he _was_ here. We think he escaped.”

Phil sits up straighter. Of course he escaped. Clint takes care of himself, especially when the team lets him fester in a cell for five days without getting to him. He’d definitely work it out for himself. Phil takes a careful breath. “Explain.”

“Well,” Cap says, and it sounds like he’s ascending stairs as he talks, “We found two rooms that look like they’ve had a prisoner recently. There’s a ton of medical testing stuff that Bruce and Tony are looking over right now. There’s also two dead guards and a torn out chain.” Cap pauses and then adds, “I don’t know how he managed to rip the chain, but he did. Adrenaline, I guess. Coulson, they left some records, and it’s pretty clear that it was Hawkeye that was here. He’s just not here now.”

Phil thinks for a moment. “Okay. You and Natasha get back up here to the field base. I’ll calculate some possible paths he’d take. Any idea how long he’s been missing from there?”

“Bruce says that judging from the dead guards, not even a day. We might have just missed him. Tony’s doing a scan of the area.”

“Okay. And the physical state he’d have been in? Do we know that yet?”

“No. Well, we know they were testing crap on him, so he might be drugged, but we don’t know what yet. Notes indicate standard interrogation in addition to the medical stuff. Bruce and Tony are trying to find more specific information about that.”

Phil pulls out a map. They’re in Pennsylvania of all places right now. HYDRA snatched Clint from the streets of New York five days ago, which means they might know more about him than anyone would like, and that told Phil that Clint wouldn’t run back to New York.

He turns back to the map as Natasha slams her way through the door to the field base. “A day’s lead, they figure,” she says. “Maybe even less.”

“Yeah, that’s what Steve said.”

They both stood over the map, and Phil ran a finger back to New York.

“He wouldn’t go back there. He’d find a place to lay low nearby.”

“Why hasn’t he called in?”

“Can’t get a line?”

“Or he’s hurt.”

Phil stares at the map and nods. They’re quiet for a few minutes, and Natasha leans into Phil’s shoulder.

“Phil,” she says. “Look at this.” She draws a line with her finger to a city only about two hours from where they are. “There’s even a train line.”

Phil stares and blows out a breath. Would Clint go there? Would he risk it?

_“How was dinner?” Phil asked, setting his cup of tea down on their dining room table._

_“Good, good,” Clint answered. He slid into a chair and rested his chin in his hands. “Whatcha doin’?”_

_Phil leaned forward and rubbed Clint’s shoulder. “Waiting to hear how dinner with Brian went. Was it hard?” He’d only gotten through two reports in three hours while Clint had dinner with Brian, and he’d chewed two pencils until they looked like a chipmunk snack and drank five cups of tea._

_Clint smiled. “No. No, it wasn’t hard. We stuck to just getting to know each other, and I think he’s pretty cool.” Clint paused and looked Phil’s Cap poster hanging framed in their hallway, and added, “He might have some traitorous thoughts about which comic book company he should be supporting, but he’s cool.”_

_Phil laughed. “How long is he staying in New York?”_

_“He’s actually headed home day after tomorrow. Says he’s been lurking here long enough and now that we can stay in touch, he needs to get home to his partner and his job.”_

_Clint sounded pensive, and Phil cocked his head to watch his face. It was carefully guarded. “You okay with him taking off so soon? It’s only been a couple days.”_

_Clint stared at his hands. “It’s not like we’re going to make up all of that lost time, like ever, so yeah, I’m okay. We’ve had a few meals and done some sightseeing. He needs to get home. We’ll stay in touch.”_

_“Clint, It makes sense that you’d feel bad about him leaving.” Phil said, and when Clint looked up at him his eyes were wet. So many people had left Clint over the years. Part of Phil wanted to take Brian McGraw aside and make him stay, and to list off every loss and betrayal Clint had suffered in his life as a defense, but that wasn’t his place._

_Clint nodded and looked down again. “Yeah. I know. It’s just been a crazy couple of days. Rollercoaster, you know?”_

_“I’m glad he seems like a good person,” Phil replied._

_Clint laughed and stood up. “Yeah, that would suck. ‘Hey, I’m your long-lost father and I’m a douchebag just like your dad!’ would be bad,” he said, and held out a hand to Phil. “Did you get enough done to come to bed with me?”_

_Phil stood and followed him to the bedroom. “Yes,” he answered, and that night he held Clint tightly in his arms until Clint fell into a restless sleep._

_Clint hadn’t visited Brian McGraw since he left New York – only a month or so had passed since the big reveal – but he’d been in pretty constant contact with him. Phil would watch Clint’s face light up when a text from Brian came through, and would listen to him laugh on the phone with him every few days. He compared it to a honeymoon – they may not always be this delighted with each other – but Phil figured Clint deserved it._

Now, though. Clint was possibly compromised, and taking this situation to Brian’s doorstep was not something a rational Clint would ever do.

“He’s not thinking straight if that’s where he’s ended up,” Natasha says, echoing Phil’s thoughts.

“No, but it’s close and he knows Brian’s partner, Mark, is a doctor – without thinking straight it might be just where he’d go,” Phil says, and he pulls his personal phone out and sees a flashing message note.

****

Clint falls backward when he pulls away from the handrail as vertigo grabs him hard, but strong hands clasp his waist and pull him upright. Who – oh, right, Brian. His grip feels warm, and the protective glare Clint catches in his eyes steals his breath. He’s only known him a couple of months, but he sees an almost feral protectiveness in Brian’s face. “Can I please crash here?” Clint asks again. “I got into some shit at work and –“

Suddenly, he’s distracted by a huge, green dragon in Brian’s front yard. Fuck. This is bad. Inside. He needs to go inside.

He lurches up the steps, has to get inside, away. A firm grip hold him in place, so he spins, lashes out with a foot to sweep the guy off balance, but then hesees Brian’s face, his eyes squinted and mouth turned down. “Brian?” he asks, and stops fighting. He doesn’t want to fight Brian. Brian’s the dad you don’t try and hit. “Don’t wanna hit you,” Clint mumbles, and now Brian is pulling him up the stairs and another guy is waiting in the doorway. He’s very tall, and has dark curls and deep amber skin. His brown eyes are narrowed at Clint.

“What’s going on?” the new guy asks, and Clint ducks under his arm to get inside.

“Dragons,” Clint says. “Whatever you do, _don’t_ call anyone.” Then, safe inside the house and standing in a rainbow colored foyer, his knees stop working and the world goes dark.

He wakes as he’s being manhandled onto a plush purple couch that has flowers growing out of it. His throat is parched and he can’t stop the shivers wracking his body no matter how hard he tries to get control of himself. He has to stay in control. “Hallucinations,” he says, and locks eyes with the guy who must be Brian’s partner, Mark. “Bad guys, though. No hospitals, please. No hospital. No forms. Please,” he says, and he grips Mark’s arm tightly. “It’s not safe.”

“For who?” Mark says, pushing Clint down to the couch and kneeling next to him.

Brian is standing behind him, and Clint sees worry in his face and fuck, he’s gonna mess this up. Too late, though. “For you,” Clint says, and suddenly the brass floor lamp near the couch turns into a robot with a very big sword. Clint blanches and throws his arms up to block the strike, and Mark grabs his hands and pushes them back to the couch. Brian grabs Clint’s chin and forces him to look at him. “Fuuuck,” Clint whispers as Brian holds him still.

“Brian, he shouldn’t stay here,” Mark says with his voice pitched low.

Clint hears him anyway, understands, agrees, but his body isn’t working. He doesn’t know why he came here, why he thought this was a good idea. It isn’t. He tries to sit up again.

“Mark, look at him. We have to help,” Brian says, and presses a warm hand on Clint’s chest. “Clint, settle. We’ll get help.”

“It’s not safe,” Mark insists. “This is an _Avenger_ , on our couch, clearly running from someone. The kinds of people an Avenger would run from and who would do this to him? It’s _not_ _safe_.”

“He’s staying,” Brian argues. “He needs help and he’s here. What will we do with him? Send him back to the cab he came in? Take him to a hospital where more people will be in danger? Where he’ll be easily found? No.” He picks Clint’s hand up and rubs it with his thumb, repeats: “No. He came to us for help.”

Clint hears a hint of wonder in Brian’s voice, but he doesn’t know how to respond. There are drugs coursing through his system and he’s lucky a two-hour train ride got him here before they really kicked in. He’s lucky he found his stuff, including his hearing aids, before he left the Hydra base. But after that? Coming here was a dumb, desperate move.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “Just let me stay for a bit. I’ll go soon. I promise.” He doesn’t know how he’s going to accomplish that, or where he will go, but he has to say it.

“You’re staying, Clint,” Brian says, and he glares at Mark, who sighs and crosses his arms.

Mark leans over him and eyes him clinically. He presses two fingers to Clint’s neck and looks at his watch. After a few counts, he looks back at Clint. “Do you know what they gave you?” he asks, and Clint loses himself in the deep baritone voice and imagines listening to Mark talk congenially over a meal someday. “Clint. What did they give you?” he repeats, louder.

Clint thinks back, tries to remember anything about the interrogation. “It was pink?” he manages. Questions and shots and more questions and new shots and heat and cold and fighting and a train and a cab, and that’s about all he’s got left right now. He has a fleeting thought of ‘what if he’s been followed?’ He tries to sit up. “Gotta get outta here. Dumb idea.”

Brian holds him down, his blue-green eyes filled with worry. He’s stronger than Clint at the moment, and Clint sags back against the couch with a puff of a breath.

“Brian,” Mark says softly, “Go get a water bottle for him.”

He sounds resigned, but Clint likes the gentle tone Mark carries. It feels like a cool balm, and he needs that right now. But when Brian releases his grip on Clint’s arms and stands to go get the water, Clint’s blood goes cold. “No, no, no, no,” he hears himself shout. Fear washes down to his fingertips. He reaches toward Brian – he wishes his limbs weren’t so _heavy_ right now – and he only manages to grab Brian’s bathrobe, but he hangs on tight.

“You have to _stay_ ,” he says. He needs to keep Brian – he needs to keep his _father_ (and oh, fuck, that’s why he came here, that’s why he put these people in danger. He wanted Brian to help him, to be a father) – in his sights. “Please _stay_ ,’ he adds; he fists Brian’s robe and tries to pull him back down.

Mark steps away, pushes Brian gently toward Clint. “Okay, okay. I’ll be right back and Brian will stay with you.” He steps away as Brian kneels down again. “I’m going to get some water and my kit. I’ll be right back.”

“Brian has to stay,” Clint repeats, and the light behind them wavers, turns blue, and Clint has to close his eyes as it flares and twists in his vision. He clenches his eyes and nausea creeps up his throat. He takes shallow breaths to fight it, and feels Brian’s soft hand brushing through his hair.

How a man who is related to Clint manages to live a life with soft hands has been something Clint’s been very aware of since he met Brian McGraw a little over a month ago. Clint’s dad had rough, violent hands that always seemed dry and cracked as the desert floor. Brian’s hands were pinkish and seemed to always be soft from lotion. The contrast was a reminder of the path Clint could’ve traveled, had fear and a very real threat by the name of Harold Barton not stood in his mother’s way.

Mark reappears and kneels down next to Brian, rests his hand on Brian’s back and offers Clint the water. “Try to drink this,” he says, and Brian takes the bottle from him to help Clint.

The water is cool and clear and Clint drinks greedily. Mark pulls out a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff and gently wraps it on Clint’s arm. Clint tries to ignore the scorpion sitting on the cord of the scope, looks at Brian instead while Mark gets a reading.

  
“It’s low,” he says after a minute. “Too low. Brian, we need to get him to a hospital.”

“Noooooo,” Clint says, and the water he just drank turns to ice in his belly. “Have to stay here. I have to stay with Brian.” He’s feeling frantic and cold and heavy, and hospitals ask way too many questions, and what if Mark and Brian drop him off at one and _leave_ him there? “Please.”

Brian looks torn, and Clint guesses he is, but he’s also smart, and after a glance at Mark, he pulls his phone from his pocket and taps in a number. After a moment, he takes a deep breath and says, “Hi Phil, it’s Brian. I know you’re probably busy with work and all, but something of yours turned up at my house. I’m not sure why. Call me asap, okay? We’ll work out delivery. Give me a call.” He tucks his phone back in his pocket and looks at Mark. “Give Phil time to get the message. If we haven’t heard from him in a couple hours, we’ll take Clint in, okay?”

Mark looks at Clint again, and Clint nods frantically. All Clint can manage is, “Brian needs to stay. _Please_.”

They both stay, and Brian strokes Clint’s sweaty hair and tucks a blanket tight around him when he starts to shiver uncontrollably. Mark mutters under his breath about how Clint needs an IV and better monitoring and how it’s nice to see that Barton is just as stubborn as McGraw and how he’s completely outnumbered now and _they’d better not_ get any ideas about teaming up too often.

Clint hears him, but it’s getting hard to concentrate, and his bones are starting to ache and his head is starting to pound. Mark gives him more water, but he can only take a little before nausea rolls in his belly again. His knees throb along with his head and he clenches his eyes shut and tries to regulate his breathing. It’s coming in short gasps, and Brian cuts through his concentration.

“Clint? What’s happening?” he asks, and even if Clint never heard it in forty plus years, he’s hearing the bleeding worry now. He wishes he could make it go away.

“Hurts,” Clint answers in between sharp breaths, and Brian grips his hand tightly. It feels good against the pain, it feels good to have this man sitting here holding his hand firmly and sitting watch. He bets that Brian’s the kind of father who would sit in your room through the night if you were a little kid with the flu or something. Clint likes knowing that the blood running through his veins is the blood running through Brian’s veins. He likes knowing that a _father_ is worrying for his safety. It might be childish, but it’s all he’s got.

Brian’s phone rings a few minutes later and they all jump. “Phil?” he says right away. He pauses. “Yes. Drugs of some sort? Yes. Mostly. Okay. Hurry.” He hangs up and leans over Clint. “They’re on their way. Phil says they can take you to a secure medical facility. They’ll be here in under an hour.”

“Don’t leave,” Clint whispers. He knows he’s said it already. He knows he sounds pathetic and stupid, but he can’t hold anything in right now. Mark leans over and gives him some more water, and when Clint shudders at the taste and feels his muscles seem to wilt in his skin, Mark pulls the blood pressure cuff out again. Clint feels heavier, feels his eyelids droop, and the lights are yellow again and the walls are finally still, but he’s suddenly leaden and limp.

“Clint,” Mark says, putting a warm hand to Clint’s cool face. Clint looks at him and sees part of why Brian might have been drawn to him. There’s a strength in his gaze that reminds Clint of Natasha. “Clint, stay with us, okay? You need to stay awake until we can get you to a medical facility.”

“Tired,” Clint answers, and the word comes out breathy and thin.

“Clint,” Brian says, urgently, “This is Mark,” he says with a smile. “Hell of a way to meet him, don’t’ you think?”

“I always make a good first impression,” Clint mutters. “Fuck.” He’s trying to keep his eyes open, he really is, but it’s so hard. His eyelids feel like they have tiny weights attached.

“Clint,” Brian insists. “Tell me more about Waverly.”

Clint opens his eyes at that. “Waverly’s awful,” he says. “Don’t wanna talk about that hell-hole.” He doesn’t say that now, when he thinks of Waverly, all he can think of is how Brian _could’ve_ stolen him away from the place if he’d known about Clint and he kind of gets stuck on how he _didn’t_.

“The circus?” Brian says, pushing. His hand is steady through Clint’s hair, but his voice is shaky.

“Hell hole,” Clint chokes out around a wash of pain. “I got the shit kicked out of me everywhere I went ‘cause of my ears and my mouth and my dumb luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time every goddamned day of my life until I joined SHIELD and met Phil.” The pain dissipates and Clint is left panting. He practically growls, “Hell holes until I was thirty four fucking years old. You don’t want to know, Brian. So stop asking.” Anger is simmering under his cold skin, and he locks eyes with Brian.

Brian nods. “Shhh. Okay. I’m sorry,” he says, and now he’s stroking Clint’s cheek and it feels like coming home.

Clint closes his eyes and nods.

“I’m sorry,” Brian says again, and Clint opens his eyes.

He hopes Phil and the others get here quick. “I’ve told you,‘s not your fault.” He bites off a groan as another wave of nausea rolls up into his throat, and he squeezes Brian’s hand hard enough to pull a gasp from him. Mark reaches over and places a cool cloth on Clint’s forehead, and it feels like winter, and it feels like magic, and the pain dissipates, leaves him breathless on his father’s living room couch.

****

Phil can’t help pounding on the dark wood of Brian McGraw’s front door, and when a tall, dark-haired man opens the door he doesn’t waste any time on introductions. “I’ve got a med team. Where is he?”

An hour later, he approaches Mark Mannan slowly and holds out his hand. “I’m Phil. Thank you for looking after Clint.” Phil realizes as Mark stands, that he’s probably six and a half feet tall, and that he’s strikingly handsome, with dark, curly hair and light brown skin and eyes you could get lost in.

Mark nods and shakes Phil’s hand with a firm grip. “I hope he pulls through,” he says, and looks over at his partner as Brian sits nearby with his head in his hands.

Phil likes Mark’s eyes. They’re welcoming, but they’re cautious. He looks at Phil like someone to be measured. Not for a test, but to know, to understand. Mark’s got an assessing gaze. “Clint’s really, really tough,” Phil answers with a smile. “Our doctors have antidotes for most of the known HYDRA formulas, and we have the research on this one in hand. Our team should be able to keep him with us.”

Phil projects confidence, and it’s not false, but he crosses his arms tightly to his chest, feels the pull of his dress shirt across his shoulders as he remembers how Clint was unconscious and barely breathing as Brian held his sweaty hand when Phil and the medics arrived. How he coded in the jet on the way to the medical facility, how the poison control team had been yelling at each other as they tried to get a handle on what he’d been given.

He watches as Mark sits down next to Brian and rubs his back. He watches Brian, this man who didn’t even know he was a father until a month ago, sit and wonder if his son is going to die a month into their relationship. He forces away any thoughts of how short-lived Brian and Clint’s time would be together if things turned for the worse, and he waits. It’s two hours before Doctor Faulkner emerges, and Phil notes the tightness around her eyes, the grim set of her full lips. His heart stutters and Brian stands up but stay.

An hour later Phil is standing next to Clint’s bed, watching him sleep. They are intentionally keeping him sedated, waiting for the antidote to fully take hold, trying to give his body a rest. Phil holds his hand – he hates holding Clint’s hand when it’s limp, but he does it anyway. He watches the rise and fall of his chest and tries to ignore the tart, antiseptic smell of the room and intrusive beeps of the monitor.

Natasha is at his elbow. She puts her head on his shoulder and says, “I think Brian would like to sit with him a bit, and you could use a meal. Okay?” She rubs his back and he sags a little. He’s very, very tired.

“Okay,” he says, and he leaves the small room after brushing a strand of hair out of Clint’s face and pressing a kiss to his cool forehead.

Phil mechanically puts a forkful of spaghetti in his mouth and Natasha quietly eats her meatloaf, and Phil wonders if her meal is as tasteless as his. He looks over to ask, when she gets an odd look on her face and jerks her head toward the cash register across the room.

Mark is paying for a meal, and he looks up and scans the room before he settles his gaze on Phil and Natasha. He crosses to them deliberately, and offers a smile and a “Do you mind if I join you?” before he sits down heavily across from them.

They eat in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Mark puts down his fork, carefully wipes his mouth with a napkin, and looks up at Phil. “I’m angry that he came to our house,” he says. His voice is gentle, though, and Phil wonders if this is how he talks to patients when he’s working.

Phil nods. “I don’t blame you. He shouldn’t have done that.”

Natasha adds, “He wasn’t thinking clearly,” and Phil hears her reflexive defense of Clint. Mark nods. “I know. Brian thinks it’s fantastic that he trusted us enough to come.”

Phil smiles at Brian’s quick study of Clint, but he hears the trepidation in Mark’s voice and doesn’t blame him. “If it makes you feel any better, he’s going to be very angry at himself when he realizes what he did. It’s not something he’d ever do in a clear state of mind.”

“How long have you all been working together?” Mark asks, looking down at his food.

“He’s been at SHIELD for twelve years,” Phil replies. “I’ve known him for eleven.”

Natasha simply says, “A long time.”

Mark nods. “Brian’s lived a pretty privileged and safe life compared to Clint. He’s been fighting a lot of guilt this past month.”

“He shouldn’t,” Natasha says sharply. “It’s ridiculous to compare lives. They’re just lives.”

Mark smiles. “Yeah, I know. But that’s not going to stop Brain from feeling guilty.” He pauses. “He feels lucky to have found Clint. You should hear him brag when you guys are on the news now. His eyes light up when he talks about Clint, too. It’s cute.”

“But you’re still angry,” Phil says, and then a thought hits him. “You’re angry they’ve found each other,” he says, and his own anger stirs. Clint doesn’t need someone trying to come between him and Brian. He doesn’t need the drama, either. He had enough of that as a kid.

Mark must sense Phil’s mood shift, because he lifts his hands in defense. “I’m not going to do something stupid like encourage Brian to lose touch with Clint,” he says, and he leans back in his chair. “Even if I want to.” He shakes his head. “Brian’s the one who’s going to get hurt, here. You know? He’s going to grow to love him and he’s going to hold on tight – it’s how he works. Then Clint’s going to get himself killed, or he’s going to bring more danger to our lives, and Brian’s going to lose him.”

Natasha pushes her tray away, and Phil can feel the heat from her eyes. “That’s no reason to deny them each other. You can’t predict. Besides,” she says, “We won’t let him bring danger to your lives. He won’t want to, and we’ll make sure it doesn’t happen.”

Phil nods. “We will.”

Mark frowns at them. “You can’t know that. You couldn’t keep it from happening this time, and who’s to say it won’t happen again? And he will lose him. God, do you two have any idea how hard he’s falling into this mess of fatherhood? He wants to move to New York! He wants to throw away his career here and move, and it’s only been a month.”

“You’re the one who’s afraid,” Natasha says softly. “Not Brian.”

Mark’s eyes light with anger. “Of _course_ I’m the one who’s afraid. I’m the one _watching_. He’s in it and loving the idea of having a son and wishing he could somehow make up for forty years of absence. He can’t see clearly at all.” His voice is tinged with sadness, too.

Phil takes a sip of his coffee and lets the silence hang for a moment. He can look at this two ways, strategically or emotionally. He usually knows which one to pick, but this time he’s not sure. Clint would probably take Mark’s side on most of this, after all. But Phil remembers Clint’s face when he finally let Brian in, finally let down his guard and just talked to the guy. Phil remembers Clint introducing Brian to Tony – ‘Don’t be an asshole to him, Tony’ – and Bruce – ‘I think it’s cool that you guys are both physicists’ – and the quiet pride in Clint’s voice as he did it.

“All we can do is assure you that we’ll be careful with you and Brian and do our best not to endanger you. The rest is up to you and Brian to figure out. It’s early, though,” Phil says as gently as he can. “Everyone’s vulnerable right now. Even you. But Clint and Brian are going to get to have what they want. This time, Clint gets to have what he wants. And you can’t stop it, and neither can I, even if the logical thing to do is stop it.”

Phil stands and moves to Mark’s side. He reaches out and squeezes Mark’s shoulder. “You two will figure this out, somehow. We swear we’ll do all we can to keep you both safe, and maybe the first step in that is to talk to Brian about how dangerous living in the same city might be. I’ll do that, but I won’t do anything to pull them apart. I’m sorry.”

Natasha stands, too, and leans over the table and her eyes simmer with anger. “I want Clint to get what he wants here, and what he needs in order for that to happen is for everyone to be safe. I’m very good at keeping people safe.”

Phil cringes a little – he can hear the promise and the threat in Natasha’s words, and he’s grateful that Mark seems smart enough to hear it as well. Mark swallows and nods, and then goes back to his meal.

****

He feels like someone has laid cinder blocks on his body, and like each breath is fighting through a tangled mess of weeds, but he smells hospital air and feels the thin, rough sheets of a hospital bed. He opens his eyes and sees Brian sitting in a chair, dozing. His navy blue button up shirt looks like it’s been crumpled in a drawer for days, and dark blond scruff covers his face. His head is tipped back, and his mouth is open a little bit.

Clint reaches for the button to raise his bed, but his arms are too heavy. He closes his eyes and tries to take a deep breath. It hurts. He opens his eyes again, and must have made a noise because Brian stirs and opens his eyes, startling when he realizes Clint’s awake. Clint feels a flush of amazement at the concern that flashes in Brian’s eyes; he’s still startled at how those eyes are like his own. Brian says something, but Clint’s too hazy to focus enough on his mouth. He just nods and sinks back into the bed. Brian reaches over, puts his hand on Clint’s, and digs his phone out of his pocket. After he sends a message to someone he types again and shows it to Clint.

“Phil is on his way. I have your aids, though. Do you want them?”

Clint shakes his head. He’s too tired. Brian nods and reaches over for the call button, and then he just rubs Clint’s hand gently until the doctor comes in. Clint thinks maybe it’s the nicest feeling ever. The doctor does some checks and writes out a note explaining that they need one more blood draw and that the antidote is likely to make Clint woozy. He says that Clint’s been out for almost two days, and he’s going to be down for the count for a while. Clint falls asleep while he’s writing some more.

When he wakes next, Phil and Brian are sitting near each other, talking softly. The cinder blocks on his chest feel lighter, but he feels like the blood in his veins is sluggish and slow. Phil realizes he’s awake, and he looks up with a smile. He signs, “Hey. Welcome back.”

Brian gives him a smile and Clint wonders when the warmth of it is ever going to fade. He lifts his arms and is relieved that they seem okay with moving now. He signs back, “What the hell happened?”

Phil says something to Brian and then moves over and brushes Clint’s hair away from his face. He signs, “HYDRA, poison, and almost dying at Brian’s house. Ring a bell?”

Clint thinks, and he sucks in a breath when he remembers stumbling to Brian’s house as his senses started to dull. He remembers gripping Brian’s robe in terror, too. It’s fuzzy, but he remembers. He took trouble to Brian and Mark’s doorstep is what he did. All he signs back to Phil as he nods is, “Fuck.”

“Can I get your aids for you?” Phil signs. He throws a glance at Brian, and Clint knows that the right thing to do is include Brian in the conversation, but he is busy regretting getting this whole thing and trying to stifle the cold thread of fear in his chest. What if HYDRA had been able to follow Clint? What if they had a tracker? Maybe they did, and no one knew it yet. Maybe HYDRA knew that Brian was important now. They’d use him, hurt him, and kill him for sure.

His fear must’ve shown, because Phil reaches into the drawer of the nightstand and pulls out Clint’s aids, gestures to him firmly. “Put them in before we talk about this.”

Clint closes his eyes, though, as scenarios play across his eyelids. Scenarios filled with blood and fear. He feels a shove on his shoulder and opens his eyes.

Phil’s gaze is dark. He signs again, “Put them in, please.”

Clint glares, but he follows the orders and slips the aids in. He looks over at Brian, whose forehead is wrinkled. His eyes are shifting between Phil and Clint. As soon as the aids are in, Clint snarls, “I’ve put them at risk.”

Brian shakes his head. “No. It was the right thing to do. You knew we’d help you.”

Clint purses his lips and looks away.

“No, it wasn’t the right thing to do,” Phil says, and his voice is in full-on laser command mode. Clint can’t help but look back up at him. Phil’s voice is like a super power sometimes.

“It was,” Brian protests. “He needed help.”

Phil shakes his head. “He did, but he shouldn’t have come to you to get it. He endangered you and Mark and he might have blown any chance at keeping who you are out of the hands of our enemies."

Clint is confused, but he’s glad Phil is seeing his side. He nods and starts to agree, but Phil cuts him off.

“It wasn’t the right thing to do, but you were drugged out of your mind, and nothing bad came of it. It worked out, and beating yourself up about it _isn’t_ going to help. We’ve done an investigation, and the chances of HYDRA knowing where you went is practically zero.” He reaches down and picked up Clint’s hand. “Don’t beat yourself up. We’ve got a plan.”

Brian and Clint both say, “What?” at the same time.

“We’re going to station an agent in your town for a few months until we can be sure you weren’t exposed. They won’t watch your every move, but they’ll keep an ear to the ground and monitor your neighborhood carefully.” He pauses and adds, “Mark thinks it’s a good idea, and our boss approves. If you were exposed, we’ll take extra measures from there. We seriously doubt it happened, though.”

Clint doesn’t know what to say, but Brian just nods. Phil smiles down at Clint, and god, Clint trusts that smile so much. Even if he wants to protest everything, Phil’s smile is like a glue for what he thinks he might’ve broken. He sighs.

“You need more rest,” Brian says gently.

Phil looks between them and says, “I’m going to go see if I can get him a milkshake. It’s a thing,” he adds at Brian’s questioning look. He leans over and kisses Clint’s cheek and leaves with a squeeze of his hand.

“What flavor?” Brian asks with a smile.

“Strawberry or Mint Chocolate.”

“Good choices.”

They stay quiet for a moment, but Clint’s gut is churning in anger over this whole thing despite Phil’s assurances. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Brian leans over and brushes his hand through Clint’s hair. Clint wonders when that became okay, but it feels good, so he just closes his eyes and leans into the touch a little. He doesn’t remember his dad ever touching him except in anger. He does remember wishing, though. He saw his dad touch his mother with affection from time to time, and Clint would watch his calloused hand and wonder what it would feel like to get a hug from him.

“I’m glad you came to me,” Brian says, and Clint savors the gravelly sound of his voice.

Clint can remember being afraid of men for a long time as a kid, associating their deep voices with fear and pain. Time and good people eventually changed that, but it feels like Brian’s voice could never ever make him afraid, like it’s infused with safety.

“Stupid thing to do,” he answers.

Brian shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Mark’s probably pissed at me, even if you’re too close to be mad,” Clint says, and wonders where Mark is at the moment. He’d like to apologize to him, too.

“Yeah, well. He was, but he also knows that it’s over. It wasn’t how he wanted to meet you for the first time, but it’s what happened. He’s just waiting to take you golfing,” Brian says with a smile.

Clint can’t help the look of horror on his face, and Brian laughs. Clint shakes his head. “He plays golf? You never said anything about golf.”

Just then, Mark walks in the room with a blinding smile. “Revenge,” he says, and Clint marveled at the velvety tone of his voice. It sounds like kindness and strength wrapped in a tight ball.

“You’re going to take your revenge on my dumbass move out on me through _golf_?” Clint says warily. A vision of khaki pants and plaid sweater vests sends a shudder down his spine.

“Have you ever played?” Mark asks, leaning into Brian’s shoulder. His gold-brown eyes sparkle with mirth.

Clint looks at Brian for help, but his lips are pursed and he’s swallowing a laugh. He’s no help at all. “Noooo,” Clint says.

“Then yes, I’m getting revenge for your dumbass move through a game of golf.”

 

Two months later, on a clear, sunny day in Ohio, Clint shoves a putter in his borrowed golf bag and growls, “There’d better at least be a fucking drink somewhere in the stupid traditions of this stupid game.” He yanks his light blue ball cap down further over his face.

Golf is embarrassing.

Mark laughs his gorgeous, blanketing laugh and says, “There are definitely drinks involved. _After_ I send Natasha a photo of the score card.”

After two months without any sort of threat to Brian and Mark, and several dinners and trips back and forth to Ohio in between, Clint concedes that a photo sent to Natasha is definitely fair play. He’ll take the punishment of two hours on a flat patch of land smacking a ball that doesn’t seem to give one fuck about physics around, if it comes wrapped in such forgiveness and trust.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
